Swift
by Joodiff
Summary: It's been a year since everything changed for all of them, but now it seems there are new tensions between Boyd and Grace... T-rated for language. Birthday present for Got Tea and missDuncan. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

 _April 2018 - Happy birthday to Got Tea and missDuncan. xx_

* * *

 **Swift**

by Joodiff

* * *

Twenty-three Orchard Street. Victorian. Maybe Edwardian. Eve's no expert. Halfway along a solid terrace of tall, three-storey houses not far from Highgate Cemetery with, she assumes, a broken view of Parliament Hill from the top floor. Sold to the current owners just eight months ago for an undisclosed sum which she suspects would make her eyes water. Yellowish London brick darkened by age and pollution. Bay windows. Recently-painted spiked iron railings, and wide stone steps up to a glossy black front door. Nothing significant to distinguish it from its neighbours. Solid middle-class affluence, neither gaudy nor pretentious.

It's nine months since she left London. Twelve since… Well, twelve since everything changed almost overnight for all of them. Nine months since she packed up her entire life and moved two hundred miles north to begin a brand new adventure. She doesn't regret it. There _are_ regrets, of course, but none of them are to do with matters she had any direct control over. Switching off the idling engine, Eve checks her watch. Almost four o'clock. She's made good time, is a little ahead of schedule. It won't matter.

Releasing her seatbelt, she gets out of the car. Standing alone in the weak afternoon sunshine, she stretches, easing muscles beginning to cramp from the journey. Forty-five years old, and starting to feel every damn year of it, despite making a conscious effort to maintain a reasonable level of fitness. Fumbling in the pockets of her dark jacket, she locates her cigarettes and lighter. She hasn't been told as much, but she knows there will be a complete embargo on smoking inside the house. It's not a problem, but she's not going to pass on a decent chance to top-up her falling nicotine levels. A few moments later, she's leaning back against the car's front wing, drawing smoke into her lungs. It's a bad habit, and as a fully-trained medical doctor she's well-aware of it, but…

Nine months, she thinks again. She was gone before the summer riots that rocked the city and fed the papers for days; gone before the Met's new Commissioner was appointed. Before… they… bought the house in front of her.

It didn't altogether surprise her, the purchase. No more than it really surprised her when suddenly there _was_ a 'they'. A public and unapologetic 'them'. Should've happened sooner, in her private and so-far unvoiced opinion, but she couldn't fault them for their dedicated professionalism when she worked with them, and she still can't, looking back. She doubts anyone will ever know the full truth of how things really were between them _then_ , but they're certainly not hiding the way things are _now_.

Becoming aware of a moving vehicle on the edge of her peripheral vision, Eve turns her head. Mid-range anonymous blue hatchback, several years old, slowing down as it approaches. Some things, it seems, haven't changed. Grace's car being one of them. Caught with a cigarette halfway to her lips, there doesn't seem to be any point in quickly throwing it down and grinding it out underfoot. Instead, she treats herself to a long, steady inhalation, watching the car manoeuvre into a tight parking space at the kerb as she does so. Quietly competent, that's how she'd describe the other woman's driving style. Not too confident and not too cautious.

As the hatchback's engine dies away, Eve finally extinguishes her cigarette. Crossing the road, she's already smiling as Grace alights from her car. "Grace."

The reply is warm, and it comes with a radiant answering smile. "Eve. You're early."

"The traffic was nowhere near as bad as I expected," she explains as they embrace. The brief, tight hug tells her that her former colleague has gained a little weight since their last meeting. Good. Probably, she's still lighter than she should be, but –

"Careful," Grace warns with an unexpected wince, "I took a bit of a tumble in the garden at the weekend, and I'm still a bit battered and bruised round the edges."

Releasing her hold, Eve frowns in genuine concern. "Have you seen a doctor?"

Amused exasperation is clear in the immediate reply. "Oh, don't _you_ start. I'm perfectly fine. Where's your luggage?"

Deciding not to pursue the matter, she nods towards her vehicle. "Still in the car."

"Can I help?"

"No," Eve assures her, locating her car keys again. "It's just a briefcase, a suit carrier, and an overnight bag. I'm experimenting with travelling light."

Apparently satisfied, Grace nods. "All right. Well, you go and get your things while I open the front door."

"Okay. Grace?"

Already moving away, Grace looks back at her. "Yes?"

Smiling again, she says, "It's great to see you again."

-oOo-

Eve's not sure what she expected to find beyond the front door, but whatever it was, the strange, eclectic fusion of two very different styles isn't quite it. The house has been thoroughly renovated at some point in the last decade or so, no question, but has retained most of its original period features. They jostle now with an idiosyncratic mix of furnishings and decorations that really shouldn't work together, but somehow seem to. The analogy isn't lost on Eve. Boyd and Grace, poles apart in so many ways, and yet a perfect fit. Or as close to perfect as two stubborn, highly individualistic people are ever likely to be.

Lots of books everywhere, she notices with interest, looking around as she's ushered through the open door from the hall into the big double-aspect living room with its polished wooden floor and soft-coloured walls. Not just Grace's, either, if the intriguing mix of titles is anything to go by. Psychology and military history jumbled up with sociology and sports. Encyclopaedias, dictionaries. Biographies and autobiographies of eminent public figures, both living and dead. Specialist tomes on a whole range of subjects, from geography and travel to anthropology and architecture. A smattering of literary fiction. It's a fascinating collection.

"Coffee, Eve?" Grace inquires. "Before we do anything else?"

"Lovely," she says her attention momentarily caught by the complicated and expensive-looking music system on display in the corner of the room. Slimline, high-tech speakers. An audiophile's delight. Almost certainly nothing to do with Grace. She ignores an unworthy stab of envy.

"Kitchen's downstairs," her hostess says, leading the way to a doorway towards the rear of the room.

Modern. That's Eve's first thought about the semi-basement kitchen and dining area. Lots of shining chrome and sleek, clear surfaces. Reminds her just a little of the erstwhile CCU's lab, except that the late afternoon sun is streaming in through the rear windows and the frosted glass panel in the back door to illuminate all but the very rear of the space. Lots of high-end gadgets that she can't picture Grace buying, let alone ever using. In addition to the full-size dining table, there's a small two-place breakfast bar that looks straight out onto a smooth rectangle of well-tended grass, and she settles there as Grace sets about making coffee. A large calendar on the wall near the imposing fridge catches her attention for a moment. She's too far away to read any of the many notes written there, but she can see clear evidence of neat, meticulous colour-coding. No doubt who's responsible for _that_. Smirking to herself, she inquires, "So how's he doing, stuck out at Hendon?"

"Oh, you know Boyd," Grace replies, glancing over her shoulder. "He's playing the long game, manoeuvring himself into exactly the right position to get what he wants. Machiavelli had nothing on him."

Still hiding a smile, she asks, "What's he plotting?"

"Let's just say, our old friend DCS Phil Granger's retiring in June."

The news is a surprise. Like Boyd, Granger is a stubborn old warhorse, absolutely dedicated to his job. Letting her eyebrows lift, Eve says, "And Boyd wants command of SC10? Really?"

Grace frowns. "Why not? He's got a few years left to go before compulsory retirement, you know."

"Yes, but… SC10? That's a tough gig, Grace. For anyone, let alone someone of his…" At the baleful look she receives, Eve lets the sentence trail away. Boyd is younger than Grace by several years, something she tends to forget. She tries a more tactful, "Well, no-one can say he doesn't like a challenge."

"It's his last throw of the dice," Grace explains, pouring water from the kettle into large, plain mugs. "Agreeing to go to Hendon after all was just a means to a possible end. I'm certain he won't stay there past the summer, whatever happens. He's bored and frustrated, Eve, and if he doesn't get SC10, I'm sure he'll quit the Force altogether. Take early retirement and turn his back on it all."

She can't imagine it. "And do _what_?"

Grace shrugs, her manner fatalistic. "God only knows. He's a copper through-and-through, you know that as well as I do. Never done anything else, never _wanted_ to do anything else."

"Mm," Eve murmurs. It's time to change the subject. Or at least to divert it. "And what about you? Still happy hauling out to Whiteheath every day?"

"It has its moments," Grace tells her with a brief smile. "I cut my teeth working in secure units. In some ways it feels… a bit like going home."

"You're still consulting for the Met, though?"

A nod. "When I'm asked to. Which is far more often than he… _I'd_ like."

Eve hears the slip of the tongue. Hears it but doesn't comment. Accepting the steaming mug that's handed to her, she says, "Carl Swift was transferred to Whiteheath from Broadmoor six months ago, wasn't he?"

"Indeed. Interesting man."

Grimacing, she says, "Interesting man who stalked, strangled and decapitated five young women, Grace."

"Oh, don't think I _ever_ forget that. Not for a moment." Grace settles next to her at the breakfast bar, placing her drink down on the pristine surface. "I loved every year I spent with the CCU, don't get me wrong, but there's something very satisfying about having more than a few brief, high-stress interactions with people."

"By people, you mean dangerous criminals."

"I mean _people_ ," Grace reproaches her. "We're all just people, Eve."

There's a moment of silence. Not exactly uncomfortable but telling. They're both experts in their respective forensic fields, but those fields are a long, long way apart. Looking round the room again, Eve comments, "Nice house."

Grace seems pleased. "Thank you. We think so."

Emboldened, she tries a humorous, "So, go on, then, spill the beans. I bet he's a complete bloody nightmare to live with, isn't he?"

To her relief, Grace chuckles. "It can be… challenging. Though I expect he'd say exactly the same about living with me."

Not sure if she's joking or not, Eve queries, "But on the whole, you're enjoying driving each other mad day and night?"

Again, there's a gentle hint of reproach in the answer. "I don't expect you to understand, Eve."

"I'm not criticising," she says quickly. It seems important to make that clear. "Not in any way. It obviously works for you – for both of you – and that's all that matters."

"But," Grace says, as perceptive as ever, "deep down, you still have some concerns?"

Truth wins out over diplomacy. "I just care about you, Grace. That's all."

"And so does he." A pause. "It's not always easy, I'll grant you that, but then nothing that's worth anything ever is, is it?"

-oOo-

Situated next to a much bigger, squarer room that seems to be being used as a study, the spare bedroom at the back of the house isn't large, but it's bright and comfortably furnished, and Eve finds there's something both calming and uplifting about the leafy view from the window. She could have booked into a hotel for the three nights she'll be in London, of course, but as soon as Grace heard about the conference she was planning to attend, there was little chance of being allowed to do such a thing. The invitation to stay with her erstwhile colleagues in Highgate was extended with the kind of deceptive, cordial steel Grace has always been renowned for. It would have taken a much braver woman than Eve Lockhart to decline. What Boyd may or may not think about her presence in his domain hasn't been communicated to her, but when she hears the front door being slammed downstairs, she assumes she's about to find out.

Sauntering down the stairs, she meets him in the hall just as he's hanging up his coat. The plain white shirt he's wearing has epaulette loops on the shoulders. It's as close to police uniform as she's ever seen him wear. Offering a neutral smile, she greets him with, "Boyd. Good to see you."

The grey hair is shorter, and the close-trimmed full beard she remembers from her early days with the CCU is back. Otherwise he doesn't seem to have changed very much. He surveys her without any discernible emotion. "Eve. Good journey down?"

Small-talk. Pointless, but necessary. She nods. "Better than expected. Made it into London well before rush-hour, thank goodness."

Boyd gives a non-committal grunt then asks, "Where's Grace?"

"Kitchen. She said something about cooking a special meal."

"Did she." He looks even less enthusiastic than he sounds. Then, she supposes, he probably has more experience than most of Grace's eccentric, experimental style of cooking. "Okay. Tell her I'm going upstairs to get changed, will you?"

Bewildered, Eve nods. "Oh. All right. Sure."

He heads away up the stairs leaving her to frown to herself. He's not, and never has been, a demonstrative man, but as she makes her way back to the kitchen she's perplexed by his cool aloofness. Is it resentment about her visit, she wonders, or are things between him and Grace not working out quite as well as expected? The thought nags at her and isn't mitigated by the sight of Grace standing at the stove staring away into the mid-distance as she listlessly stirs the glutinous contents of a saucepan.

"Boyd's home," Eve announces, suspecting the news is redundant. If she heard the front door slam, then presumably so did Grace. "He said to tell you he was going to get changed."

There's a world of unexpected caution in the blue eyes that focus on her. "How was he?"

"Very… Boyd-like," she says, unable to think of a better description.

Grace does not look happy. "Oh."

Guessing that it's not the right time to pry, Eve asks, "Anything I can do to help with dinner?"

-oOo-

They eat at the dining table at the windowless end of the room. It's cosier than Eve expected, and she finds herself relaxing as she tells them all about the new chapter in her life, about Mike's solid support, about the more amusing of Oggy's many foibles. Tells them, too, about Hale, watching for Boyd's reaction as she describes the tough, no-nonsense DI who has, in some ways, taken his place.

"You like him," Grace says, glass of wine in hand. It's not a question.

"I'm beginning to," Eve admits, and at the speculative twitch of an elegant eyebrow adds, "not in _that_ way, Grace. Police officers don't do it for me, I'm afraid. Never have. No offence, Boyd."

"None taken." He looks across the table at her. "Good man by all accounts. Hale. Gets results."

"Someone's done their homework," she comments, not sure if she's surprised or not.

"Proprietorial interest," Grace explains, not quelled by the chilly glare shot in her direction. "So, it really _is_ a farm? Your new body farm?"

"Used to be," Eve confirms, picturing the place in her mind. "Lots of barns and out-buildings, plenty of space. We've had a lot of funding from the University of Manchester, which has helped us expand. Some from the Home Office, too, of course."

"Well, maybe next time I'm up that way visiting relatives you'll give me a guided tour?"

Despite having lived in London for decades, Grace is still very much a Lancashire girl at heart, Eve knows. She nods. "You're always welcome. Both of you."

"I can think of a few trainees who could do with seeing the sharp end of what you do," Boyd says in the kind of dry tone that says a lot more than he probably intends about what he really thinks of his current job.

It's too good an opportunity to miss. Refilling her glass from the second bottle they've opened since sitting down to eat, Eve says, "I know it's not your thing, Boyd, but there must be something vaguely satisfying about having a hand in moulding the detectives of the future, surely?"

Again, the intense dark eyes settle on her. This time the gaze is contemplative. "Most of 'em are still so wet behind the bloody ears that I'd be genuinely frightened to let them go anywhere near a real crime scene. That's what happens when you fast-track high-fliers with very little practical policing experience."

"Don't be so reactionary," Grace tells him. To Eve, she says, "The successful trainees on the new course are hand-picked from the small pool of applicants left after a particularly rigorous selection process. They're the Met's absolute brightest and best. Nowadays not everyone believes you have to spend years out on the beat before even thinking about becoming a detective."

"No, they don't," Boyd retorts, before Eve can comment, "and there are still plenty of us who think that's a mistake. Not everything can be taught in a classroom, Grace."

She sniffs, and Eve has a strong suspicion that it's a controversial topic that has been much-argued at the very table around which they are currently ranged. Swallowing a mouthful of wine, she asks, "It's your turn, Grace. So, what about Whiteheath?"

Boyd snorts, but Grace ignores him and says, "As I said before, I'm enjoying it. It's challenging, but I'm part of an excellent team."

"What she won't tell you," Boyd cuts in, "is that no matter how good _her_ team is, nowadays the place is both dangerously mis-managed and chronically underfunded."

Grace sighs. "Boyd…"

"No," he says, a sudden hint of his infamous temper showing. "You can defend the bloody place all you like, Grace, but you won't stop me telling anyone how it really is. It's a fucking miracle it's still running. If the media got a whiff of _half_ of what's really going on over there, there would be a public outcry. Serious lapses in security, inmates – "

" _Patients_."

" – able to do whatever the hell they like, whenever the hell they like. Financial irregularities, improper staffing levels, you name it, it's probably happening at Whiteheath, and _she_ ," he glowers at Grace, "wonders why I'm not happy about her stubborn insistence on staying there."

Ah ha. For the first time, Eve thinks she understands the palpable touch of friction between the two. Boyd has his faults – many of them – but he's fiercely protective towards family, friends, and colleagues alike. Let alone towards someone who occupies the place in his life that Grace now does. If he's worried about her safety, his testy edginess makes perfect sense. Looking from one to the other, she says, "Surely it's not _that_ bad?"

"There are some problems," Grace confesses, "I'm not denying that, but he's blowing the situation out of all proportion."

"The hell I am," Boyd growls. "Fuck's _sake_ , Grace, you told me yourself that last week when your session with Swift ended, there was no-one outside the door to take him back to his cell. You'd been left all on your bloody own with him. Who knows what could have happened?"

"Nothing was going to happen," Grace chides. "Carl wouldn't hurt me. And they're called _rooms_ , Peter, not cells."

"Fucking _Carl_." An angry snarl that doesn't sit well in such a domestic setting. "Will you listen to her, Eve. The man's a complete nut-job, and yet she's convinced he's just deeply misunderstood."

"I'm sure – " Eve starts, but she doesn't get far.

Grace's eyes are narrowed. Glaring at Boyd, she says, "If you could stop thinking like a – "

"Christ," he snaps back, "what planet are you on, Grace? Wake up. The man's thing was cutting off his victims' heads and taking their fucking _eyeballs_ as souvenirs, and you seriously can't understand why I don't want you going anywhere near him?"

"It's my _job_ ," she throws at him, "and I seem to remember quite a few occasions in the past when it suited you very well to let me talk one-to-one with – "

"Irrelevant," Boyd overrules. "Completely fucking irrelevant. For one thing, you were never – "

"Murray?" Grace interrupts, the contentious name a hard challenge.

It's a low blow. Even Eve thinks so. There's a brief and very hostile silence. Not sure whether to attempt to intercede or not, she's spared the choice by Boyd getting abruptly to his feet. Not looking at Grace, he says, "If you'll excuse me, Eve, I have some paperwork to do."

"Sure," she murmurs, not knowing what else to say.

As he stalks away towards the staircase, Grace shakes her head and sighs. She says, "I'm sorry. I had hoped we could have a nice meal and a quiet, friendly evening without any histrionics."

-oOo-

Assured that her hosts have their own _en suite_ bathroom, Eve succumbs to the tempting idea of having a long, hot bath before bed. It's a luxury she doesn't often waste time on, preferring to take quick, energising showers instead. Then, her current flat doesn't have a large, inviting roll-top bath, or the space to install one. The wine and the travelling combined with the warm water and the scent of expensive bath oils are soporific, and though she doesn't quite doze, she's relaxed and day-dreaming when the sound of raised voices in the next room – the master bedroom – jerks her back to full alertness.

Boyd's unmistakable tones: "For fuck's _sake_ , Grace…"

A rapid, shrewish return. " _One_ evening, Peter. _One_ civil evening, that's all you had to manage. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" Clear outrage. "Well, for a bloody start, _I_ didn't invite her."

"Keep your voice down," Grace's far from quiet voice orders. "She's in the bath."

"So? This is _my_ house and if I want to – "

" _Our_ house, a fact that you seem to forget rather too easily."

"Oh, for…"

The volume of both voices reduces, the exchange becoming an unintelligible rumble of background sound. More than embarrassed, Eve reaches for the soap. It's time to complete her ablutions and retreat to the safety of the spare room where – hopefully – she won't be able to hear them arguing. She wonders how frequent and how serious their altercations are. Whether they are living to regret their decision to sell their respective houses and move in together. Perhaps, she muses, it was too easy for them to believe that their differences were immaterial, that their notorious bickering wouldn't escalate if they were living under the same roof.

"Heaven forbid that I should _have_ an opinion," Boyd's loud voice barks, making Eve jump, "much less _dare_ to express it."

Grace's reply is inaudible, but Eve times it by the loud slam of a door that follows several seconds later. Which of them is responsible, she doesn't know, but her heart sinks at the noise.

-oOo-

Woken by the insistent sound of the alarm she set on her phone, Eve descends to the half-subterranean kitchen some twenty minutes later. The world outside the house is grey and uninviting, the big city blinking its way into the crisp April morning. Coffee, toast, and nicotine, that's her plan, then finish getting ready for the day ahead before venturing out to her car.

She's not the first one to rise, she discovers. A tousled, incongruously-dressed Boyd is seated at the breakfast bar, reading glasses on, coffee and paperwork before him. Dark-striped jersey pyjama trousers and a rumpled grey tee-shirt. Not a sight she could ever have imagined before. He looks round at the sound of her footsteps and offers, "Morning. Sleep okay?"

"Out like a light the moment I switched off the light," she admits. It's almost true. Surveying the closed back door, she asks, "Is it all right if I…?"

"Oh. Yeah." He nods. "Key's on the shelf over there. It's raining."

"Great," she mutters, more to herself than him.

"Just open it and stand in the doorway," he instructs, "don't get wet."

"Are you sure? I mean, I could wait…"

He snorts. "Of _course_ you could. Just do it, Eve."

According to Grace, who's apparently in a position to know, throughout the 'eighties Boyd was at least a twenty-a-day man. The smug moral high ground he now affects in the presence of smokers nothing more than a deliberate annoyance. Unlocking and opening the door, Eve looks out at the morning. he's right – a heavy, depressing drizzle has started. Looks set-in, too, if the dark clouds scudding overhead are anything to judge by.

"London," she muses, lighting a cigarette. "There's nowhere quite like it."

An ostentatious cough from the breakfast bar makes her lean a little further out into the rain. He says, "Grace thinks I should apologise to you for last night."

"No need," Eve replies, not looking at him. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm intruding. I would have booked a hotel, but…"

"…Grace can be difficult to say no to. Yes, I know."

The dry note of resignation in his tone makes her shift position enough to be able to gaze at him. He looks tired, she thinks. Looks a lot like an exhausted, disillusioned man wearily plodding his way towards an unknown destination. Deciding to risk the possible firestorm, she says, "Getting used to living with someone else is only easy in cheap romance novels, Boyd."

He puts down his pen, folds his arms across his broad chest. "She's not being honest with you."

Not the response Eve expected. Not at all. Startled and puzzled, she asks, "About?"

"Whiteheath. Swift. Take your pick."

Boyd is renowned for his reticence. If he's prepared to volunteer such information, then the situation must be more serious than she imagined. Exhaling smoke from her lungs, she says, "Is it really that bad over there?"

"Yes." Laconic.

"And Swift…?"

"Is a nutter. An incredibly dangerous nutter."

Eve doesn't doubt it. Still, they both know how experienced Grace is, how good at her job she is. "She's dealt with plenty of people who fall into that category before."

"I know." He scratches at his beard, a definite and telling sign of unease. "Swift's different."

Curiosity piqued, she inquires, "How?"

The answer is considered but immediate. "He's highly intelligent, for a start. Intelligent and well-read. A good conversationalist. Comes across as very… plausible."

There's something he's not telling her, Eve's sure of it. Frowning, she asks, "What are you actually saying?"

His fingers have started to drum a nervous rhythm on the breakfast bar. "Talk to her, Eve. I'll be late home tonight – review meetings. Ask her about Swift. Listen to her answer. _Really_ listen."

"I'm still not sure what you're almost-but-not-quite saying, Boyd."

Deep brown eyes bore into her. "Just talk to her. Please."

The final word is more than enough to set loud alarm bells ringing in her head. She nods. "All right."

-oOo-

The day is a busy but satisfying whirl of lectures, panels and networking, and it passes so fast that Eve's surprised when it's time to say her farewells and return to the Highgate house where Grace is waiting for her. They cook dinner together, talking and laughing like the old friends that they are, and some of Eve's nagging concerns are temporarily allayed by the good-humoured atmosphere that hangs over the kitchen as they eat and drink and put the world to rights. It takes a while for the conversation to turn to Boyd, but when it does, there's nothing but wry affection in the way Grace talks about him. It's reassuring, leads Eve to smirk and ask, "So you're not thinking of leaving him anytime soon, then?"

"More trouble than it's worth," Grace tells her, the hint of knowing mischief in her gaze reminding Eve of other days, other times. "He has his faults, but at least he's house-trained and moderately useful."

It's a unique description of their fiery former commander, Eve has to admit. Aloud, she offers, "Beats having to stand on a chair to get things down from high shelves, I suppose."

"Exactly. He even knows approximately where the vacuum cleaner lives."

"Now _that's_ a vision I never expected find myself trying to conjur up," she says, unable to quite picture the man in question performing mundane household chores.

Grace chuckles. "If I were you, I'd keep it strictly to yourself, Eve. He wouldn't thank you for sharing."

"I can picture Spencer's face if I told him." She can, too. A horrified mixture of morbid fascination and complete incredulity.

The conversation moves on, makes lazy loops and detours through their lives and those of their friends and former colleagues, but eventually returns to the subject of Boyd when Grace says, "I think that as we get older we're more inclined to make allowances. Companionship is worth a lot."

"Companionship?" Eve queries, filling both their glasses again. She suspects the choice of word is telling. "Not love?"

Clear blue eyes stripped of much of their mystery by the harsh artificial light pinion her with a thoughtful gaze. "Fishing, Eve?"

There's no point in denying it. Grace is far too perceptive for one thing. She shrugs. "Wouldn't you be, if the situation was reversed?"

"I suppose so," Grace concedes. One interrogative eyebrow lifts. "Do you really think I'd have moved in with him, much less bought a house with him, if I didn't love him?"

It's a fair point, but still… "Well, you said it yourself: companionship is worth a lot."

"Not enough to put up with – " Grace breaks off, as if realising she's on the verge of saying too much, and shakes her head. "Ignore me. We're going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment, that's all."

Wondering if it's the right thing to say, Eve risks, "I did sense a bit of an atmosphere."

"It's my fault," Grace says, far too quickly. There's an edge of weary bitterness to the words that hangs between them for a few long seconds. The enigma isn't solved by the addition of, "I annoy him, and he loses his temper."

Distantly outraged, Eve rolls her eyes. "You 'annoy him'? Oh, come on, Grace, that's dangerously close to absolving him of any responsibility."

A heavy sigh accompanies, "Well, it's not as if I didn't know exactly what he was like, is it? What I was letting myself in for. And, believe me, I'm well-aware of my own faults."

"Boyd," Eve states, deciding not to mince her words, "is one of the most intolerant, impatient people I've ever met. You could be a complete saint and if he was in a bad mood he'd still find something to kick off about. That's _his_ problem, not yours."

Another long, thoughtful look. "You really don't think much of him, do you?"

"Oh, I do," Eve contradicts, meaning it. She's seen his better side, has even personally benefitted from it. "Don't think for a moment that I'm blind to his good points. I know he's a decent guy at heart. All I'm saying is – "

"You don't need to say anything," Grace interrupts, her voice firm. "There's nothing you can say about him that I don't already know. I _chose_ this, Eve. No-one put a gun to my head and forced me into it."

"Same goes for Boyd, I assume. I can't see _anyone_ managing to force him into… cohabitation… against his will."

"'Cohabitation'?" Again, the elegant eyebrows rise.

"I don't know quite what else to call it," Eve admits, an unwanted prickle of embarrassment warming her cheeks. "Without being presumptuous, I mean."

"We do _have_ sex, you know," Grace tells her, her tone changing to something between amused and irritable. "Quite a lot of sex, actually."

"Please," Eve says, holding up a hand. Not even a very human touch of prurient curiosity is enough to make her dwell on the subject. Thinking about what Boyd and Grace might possibly have been getting up to behind closed doors was entertaining as abstract speculation when there were long, difficult working days to endure, but now, as an irrefutable fact… "I'd really rather not know."

A flinty glare. "Why, because we're obviously _far_ too old to be fully enjoying a healthy adult relationship?"

"No," she counters with an exaggerated pantomime shudder, "because it's a bit too much like imagining one's parents gleefully going at it."

Grace's features relax into an eloquent half-smile. "Ah, I see. Well, luckily for you, I've never been a great Freudian, so I'll refrain from commenting on what that probably says about your psyche, Eve."

She's grateful. "Thank you."

"Anyway," Grace says after a pause, "we'll get through it. We always do."

Sensing another opportunity, Eve sips her wine for a moment before asking, "Is it Whiteheath?"

A sharp, hard-eyed look comes her way. "What makes you say that?"

Dissembling, she shrugs. "Just… last night's conversation. At dinner, I mean."

"Not the row afterwards?" Grace inquires. "Oh, it's all right, Eve, you don't have to stoically pretend you didn't hear a thing."

"I didn't hear much," she says truthfully, "but it's blindingly obvious he's worried sick about you."

Nothing in Grace's expression changes. "He doesn't need to be. I'm a big girl, and I can look after myself. I successfully managed it for years without him."

"The day he doesn't worry about you will be the day he stops breathing, Grace, and you know it."

"True." A short, tense silence. "He thinks… he thinks I'm unhealthily preoccupied with Carl Swift."

Keeping her tone neutral, Eve asks, "And are you?"

"Of course not!" Quick and defensive. "Carl's… a fascinating case study. A high-functioning sociopath who became a highly-organised and extremely forensically aware serial killer. One who was only caught by sheer accident, remember. Unlocking the mind of someone like that… well, the potential benefits of the things we could learn about how exceptionally intelligent, sociopathic killers really think are tremendous."

The hairs are standing up on the back of Eve's neck. Shaking her head, she says, "You almost sound like you admire him, Grace."

"Don't be ridiculous." It's quick and harsh, and not at all characteristic.

Stung by the fierce rebuke, Eve lifts her chin a defiant fraction. "Boyd's right, you know. Swift's an incredibly dangerous man."

The response is ice cold. "Are you accusing me of naïveté, or…?"

"I'm not accusing you of _anything_ , Grace, let alone naïveté. But I don't think it's unreasonable of Boyd to be worried."

"Worried about _what_?" Grace demands. "Carl's victims were all very carefully chosen, and they all fitted a very particular profile. The chances of him ever straying outside of that profile unless deliberately provoked are so low as to be non-existent. And, I should add, it's a profile that doesn't remotely fit me."

"Except in one crucial respect – you're a woman."

"He wouldn't hurt me." The statement is flat, obstinate. "He sees me as… well, as an intellectual equal, I suppose."

Eve puts down her glass. "Please don't tell me you're flattered by that, Grace."

"Of _course_ I'm not." A hostile glare is followed by, "I think it's high time we changed the subject, don't you?"

-oOo-

It's later than Eve expects when Boyd returns. He joins them in the kitchen with a palpable air of bewilderment, as if he's genuinely astounded to find them both heading towards more than three sheets to the wind. He's good-natured about it, though, which surprises her rather more than Grace's loud, well-oiled and over-affectionate, "Here he is. My beloved. Where've you been, _amore mio_?"

"At work," he tells her with admirable patience, allowing himself to be seized and tugged into a clumsy embrace. To a wide-eyed and amused Eve, he says, "Just how much have the pair of you had, for heaven's sake?"

"A lot?" she suggests, eyeing the debris of plates, bottles and glasses spread across the dining table. She nods, satisfied with the answer. "Quite a lot, yes."

"So it would appear."

Slumping back into her chair without releasing her grip on his hand, Grace says, "Don't be cross with us."

Boyd still looks bemused. "I'm not cross with you. Let go of me, woman, you're cutting off the blood supply to my fingers."

Smirking, Eve offers, "As a doctor, I have to tell you that that's highly unlikely."

He regards her with mild interest. "As a police officer with considerable experience of such things, I have to tell you that you're _really_ going to hate yourself in the morning when the hangover hits."

Waving a languid hand at him, she retorts, "You're just no fun, Boyd, has anyone ever told you that?"

"He is," Grace contradicts, still hanging onto him. "Get him in the right mood, and he can be a _lot_ of fun."

Eve's not sure if she's horrified by the idea or not. There's always been something about him, though… Shaking her head, she reaches for her glass. More wine seems to be a good solution to… well, whatever the problem is. "I keep telling you, Grace, I _don't_ want to know. You two can shag each other senseless every bloody night for the rest of your lives for all I care, but, please, _please_ , spare me the gory details."

Boyd's expression is priceless. Scandalised, but with the tiniest underlying dash of male smugness. Freeing himself from Grace's determined grip, he says, "All right, that's enough. I think it's black coffee time."

"You don't sleep if you drink coffee this late," Grace points out.

He snorts. "I didn't mean for _me_ , Grace."

"I need a cigarette," Eve declares, not at all sure that attempting to stand up is a good idea.

Grace frowns at her. "But it's raining. You'll get absolutely soaked out there. Peter, get the poor girl an ashtray, for heaven's sake."

He scowls in response. "I don't – "

"Just do as you're told," his indomitable partner interrupts, "there's a good boy."

-oOo-

 _Cont._


	2. Chapter 2

For the first five minutes after she wakes and opens her eyes, Eve feels fine. Clear-headed and well-rested, she congratulates herself on escaping the grim hangover Boyd predicted. Her complacency lasts until she gets out of bed. The dull, throbbing headache manifests itself immediately, the uneasy, unpleasant nausea a few minutes later when she's standing in the shower, eyes tight shut, forehead pressed against the cool white tiles. She's not sure how in the space of nine short months she managed to forget that spending an evening drinking red wine with Grace falls into the category of Bad Mistakes To Be Avoided At All Costs, but she's still regretting the painful oversight as she drags herself down the two flights of the stairs to the scene of the crime.

The kitchen is spotless, and it smells so strongly of citrus-fragranced air-freshener that she's sure she's going to vomit. Someone considerably taller than Grace has opened the rectangular fanlight above the breakfast bar, and it's only the slight, welcome morning breeze blowing in from outside that gives her the strength to weave towards the kettle. Coffee. She really, really needs coffee.

Footsteps on the stairs behind her precede a bright, "Eve. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like shit," she accuses, turning to face her tormentor. An immaculate-looking Grace gives her a gentle, sympathetic smile. To Eve, she strongly resembles someone who's never even _heard_ of a hangover, much less experienced one. "What the _hell_ were we drinking last night?"

"A rather interesting South African Shiraz I found in Fulham," Grace says, advancing.

"'Rather interesting'? Is that a polite euphemism for something that's twenty percent proof and was fermented in someone's garage, by any chance?"

"More like fifteen percent. You do look a bit pale."

"I _feel_ a bit pale," Eve complains, wondering if the thudding headache is ever going to subside. "I'm supposed to be delivering a lecture on Disaster Victim Identification at eleven, and all I want to do right now is lie down in a dark room and pray for death."

"Oh dear." A solicitous shake of the head. "Why don't you sit down, and I'll make you some breakfast."

She doesn't feel well enough to argue. Stomach churning and head still pounding, she settles at the breakfast bar and contemplates the endless depths of her misery. It takes her several minutes to summon the energy to inquire, "Where's Boyd?"

"In the shower." Grace glances round at her, mischievous humour clear in her expression. "You might want to thank him for getting you upstairs without accident or injury last night."

She has a few dim memories of it. An unsteady, meandering progress through the house. Quite a lot of stumbling and swearing. Has an uncomfortable feeling that she might have attempted some inept, drunken flirtation as he shepherded her along the top floor landing. Thinks she can remember a chuckling Grace being right behind them at the time, too. With some feeling, she mutters, "Oh, God…"

"It's all right," Grace tells her, clattering plates down onto the worksurface, "he's always at his absolute best when attractive women are flirting with him."

"Oh, _God_ …" It's repetitive and unoriginal, but it's the best Eve can do in her current state. She eyes Grace with dawning suspicion. "Wait a minute… you're finding this funny, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so," her hostess admits. "Your _face_ , Eve. Oh dear."

"I was _drunk_."

"I should hope so. If you weren't, I might have a thing or two to say about your… hands on… approach."

Groaning, Eve fixes her eyes on the trees at the end of the small garden and doesn't dare look anywhere else. Bits and pieces of the preceding night appear and disappear in the swirl of thick fog that seems to be obscuring much of what happened after they finished eating. She can't decide if it's a good thing, or not. "Was it _that_ bad?"

"No," Grace relents, "not really. Though I think he was a bit startled when you started trying to feel his biceps."

"Purely anatomical interest," Eve mutters. The morning isn't improving.

The coffee is better than the dry toast, but at least the latter settles her stomach a bit. Enough to request more, which Grace readily gets up to provide, saying as she does so, "I thought we could all go out to lunch tomorrow, before you leave for Manchester. Unless…?"

"Lunch would be lovely," she agrees. Adds, "My treat. Sort of thank-you-for-having-me and sorry-for-getting-disgracefully-drunk combined."

"Not necessary," Grace says, "but thank you. There's a nice little Italian restaurant on – "

"Grace," Eve interrupts, starting to feel nauseous again. "Can we please _not_ talk about food?"

-oOo-

Hangover notwithstanding, the day's a success. Her lecture goes well, she has lunch with two old friends she hasn't seen since their final weeks together as pathology trainees, and by the time she returns to Orchard Street, the morning's savage headache is little more than an unpleasant memory. Grace's car is absent from the street, she notices, but Boyd's – newer and more ostentatious – is parked in its place. She wonders whether he's always home early on a Friday, or whether there's an ulterior motive today. Either way, he opens the front door before she has a chance to knock, ushering her in with a distant sort of courtesy that suggests he's not going to mention the previous night unless she does. She's grateful. The jeans and casual shirt he's wearing tell her he's been home for more than a few minutes.

"Grace not back yet?" she asks, following him into the big living room. It's a rhetorical question, of course. A conversation-opener, nothing more.

"When Whiteheath calls, Doctor Foley answers," Boyd says, not bothering to hide the bitterness of the words. "Drink?"

She almost shudders. "No, thanks. I'm fine. I had coffee with a couple of friends before I left the conference centre."

"Okay." He waves her towards the big pale leather sofa that she's sure came from his house in Greenwich, and then settles in the matching armchair set at an angle to the fireplace. "It's not that I resent the extra hours – God knows I'm in no position to criticise anyone for that – it's just…"

"Whiteheath," Eve finishes for him. "And specifically, Carl Swift?"

"Yeah." Boyd steeples his fingers, regards her with the steady intensity she remembers so well from their CCU days. "Am I overreacting?"

It surprises her that he's willing to ask such a question. Shrugging, she replies, "Maybe, I'm not sure. She does seemed rather…"

"Fixated?" he suggests.

Eve considers the notion, then shakes her head. "Not exactly the word I would chose. But he certainly seems to fascinate her."

"Mm."

When she's certain he's not going to volunteer more, she says, "I assume it's her safety that concerns you?"

Boyd nods. "Mostly. Security at Whiteheath seems to be dangerously lax."

"'Mostly'?" she queries, seizing on the word.

Boyd allows her a tight, grudging smile. "Call it a touch of wounded male pride if you want to."

"You're being ridiculous," Eve tells him, gambling on the blunt approach being the best. How can he possibly see Swift as any sort of threat to his relationship with Grace?

It seems to work. At least, he doesn't rile up, just says, "I know."

"You and Grace," she says, choosing her words with care, "are absolutely made for each other, and you both know it. It took you far too long to get this far, Boyd – don't ruin it now."

"She's not happy." It's a bald statement, delivered without drama.

"What on earth makes you say that?" she asks, perplexed. She's seen for herself that there's tension in the house, but surely he doesn't believe that things have got _that_ bad between them?

Boyd shrugs his broad shoulders. "Why else would she be choosing to spend so much bloody time at Whiteheath?"

"'With _him_ '?" Eve adds, knowing she's right.

He doesn't move a muscle. "If you like."

Reining in the impulse to sigh, she says, "He's a convicted serial killer, Boyd, not an attractive colleague who's caught her eye. Her interest in him – strange though it may seem to the rest of us – is entirely professional. If I was to go out on a limb, I'd say that she's probably wondering if she can write a paper, if not an entire book, about him."

Boyd doesn't speak for a moment. When he does, it's to say, "An old friend of mine worked on the Poplar murders, Eve. Before Swift got himself nicked for driving while disqualified. She said she'd never seen such wanton brutality. Those women, they were beaten half to death before he sexually assaulted them, and in at least one case the pathologist couldn't be sure the victim _was_ still alive when he raped her. When he'd had his fun, he finished them off, decapitated them, then dug their eyeballs out with a flat-bladed screwdriver and took them home as trophies." A meaningful pause. "Now tell me I'm wrong to be concerned when I hear she was left completely on her own with him."

"You're not," Eve tells him, years of experience of forensic work enabling her to easily imagine the horror described, "but Grace… Grace is convinced he doesn't pose a threat to her."

He glowers. "Christ, and you believe that, do you?"

"I don't know," she admits, "but she's the expert in human behaviour, not us."

The sound of the front door opening interrupts the conversation, and when Grace appears from the hallway she regards them with quizzical suspicion, asking, "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Eve says, far too quickly. Trying to cover her error, she asks, "Good day at work?"

Grace advances into the room, and as Boyd stands up to welcome her, she says, "I know that look."

"What look?" he asks, gamely trying to deflect her attention with an awkward embrace that makes Eve smile to herself. Quick temper notwithstanding, he's a taciturn, reserved sort of man, and she suspects he's biting back considerable embarrassment as he greets his partner in front of her. She almost feels sorry for him.

"The look," Grace says, stepping back from him, "that tells me you're feeling guilty about something."

She hadn't noticed it before, but Eve realises that Grace is right. He does look sheepish. As he blusters, she says, "It's my fault. I was asking about Whiteheath." It's not the exact truth, but it's close enough.

Boyd glares in her direction. It's a warning, but it comes too late. Grace's expression becomes frosty. "Oh?"

"Eve agrees with me," he says which also isn't quite the truth. "Swift is – "

"Oh, for God's sake," Grace interrupts, raising both hands in a gesture of clear frustration, "I've been in the house for _two_ minutes and – "

"It's _important_ ," he counters, not letting her finish the sentence. "Grace – "

"No." The word is delivered like a blow. Hard and fast. " _No_ , Peter. You've made your position quite clear, as have I. You don't like it, well, fine. That's up to you. You don't have to like it. But I'm not having what I can and cannot do be dictated by _you_."

Boyd's expression darkens. "That's not what I'm trying to bloody do, and you know it."

Still seated on the sofa, Eve struggles with an increasing sense of _déjà vu_. It's doubtful that there's anyone who worked for the CCU who escaped witnessing one of Boyd and Grace's infamous disagreements, but this… This is different. Much more personal.

"You're jealous," Grace accuses, a discernible edge of vindictiveness in her voice. "You thought that we'd move in together and you'd be the absolute centre of my attention from then on, and you're not happy to find that you were wrong."

Boyd glowers back. "Don't be fucking ridiculous. Why can't you understand that it bloody terrifies me, the thought of what Swift could do to you if he took it into his head to try?"

Not giving ground, Grace counters, "And why can't _you_ understand that that's not going to happen?"

Intervening might not be the best thing to do, Eve knows, but she can't sit still watching them tearing into each other. Getting to her feet, she says, "Why don't you both calm down a bit and – "

It's Boyd who rounds on her, temper rising. "What the _fuck_ has it got to do with you?"

She steps back, attempting to placate him. "Nothing. But Grace is my friend and – "

"Fine," he barks. "If she's your friend, _you_ tell her how bloody stupid she's being, because she won't listen to _me_."

"Why would I?" Grace all-but spits at him. "You say the same damn thing over and over again, and you point blank refuse to credit me with knowing exactly what I'm doing."

"Rubbish," he snaps back. "I don't doubt your professional ability, Grace, what I _doubt_ is your impartiality."

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Grace demands.

The situation is escalating faster than Eve would have believed possible, even knowing them both as well as she does. She's not sure what to say or do for the best, not sure if there's anything she _can_ say or do to calm the situation. They're both too angry to listen to reason, of that she's certain, everything that's been simmering below the surface since she arrived suddenly coming to the boil.

"You're so fucking obsessed with him that you've lost sight of what he is," Boyd accuses, not bothering to hide his belligerence. "I mean, far be it from me to suggest that you might be behaving in any way inappropriately, but – "

" _Inappropriately_? Oh, that's good, coming from you, Boyd."

Eve doesn't miss the switch from forename to surname, and the sudden distance it implies. She tries again to intercede. "Maybe – "

"Shut up, Eve," Grace snarls at her. "He's right, this is nothing to do with you."

Admonished, she looks from one to the other, debating whether to simply retreat and leave them to it. It's always seemed to her that in some perverse way they thoroughly enjoy fighting with each other. This, though… this is more than a petty squabble over who's in the right and who's in the wrong. It's so much more than Grace needling and Boyd rising to it.

"Oh, at least you admit I'm right about something. Just not – "

Grace cuts him short with an icy, "You're being tediously repetitive now, Boyd."

"Am I really."

"What is it about Carl that gets under your skin, hm?" she challenges.

There's so much tension in Boyd's stance now that Eve can't believe how quiet his harsh voice is as he retorts, "Apart from the fact that he's a fucking serial killer who might just decide to pluck out your eyes one day? Nothing; nothing at all."

"Why do you always have to be so melodramatic?" Grace demands. "I've told you and told you, Carl is no threat to me."

"Based on _what_? Your own half-baked theories, or – "

It's a serious error. Even Eve knows it. She expects Grace to react – of course she does – but she doesn't expect her to pull her arm back and aim an open-handed slap at Boyd. His reactions are still as fast as they ever were, though, and he snaps his head back before the blow can land.

It's what happens next that frightens Eve. _Really_ frightens her. Boyd seems to act on instinct, pivoting on one foot and drawing his own arm back in a grotesque mirror of Grace's action, and for a moment Eve is certain that nothing will stop him lashing out. Open-mouthed, she sees something that causes all the muscles in her stomach to clench. Grace, caught in the towering shadow of his rage, flinches away from him.

Whether it's the other woman's instinctive reaction that's responsible, Eve doesn't know, but Boyd freezes, his arm still raised. Freezes, and stares straight at Grace. It's a split-second frozen tableau. A terrifying, static moment in time where nothing makes any sense.

Boyd drops his arm, upper lip curling a contemptuous fraction, and then he stalks from the room without a single word, roughly shouldering past Grace as he goes. In his wake he leaves an absolute silence that's only disturbed moments later by the sound of the front door being slammed.

-oOo-

"He won't have gone far," Grace says, her tone every bit as dull and lifeless as her expression, "he never does."

Pausing in her self-appointed task of making tea for them both, Eve asks, "So, this is a regular thing, then? Him losing his temper and storming off?"

"No."

"Hm." She's not sure she believes the spiritless denial. What she _does_ believe, however, is that the friction between her erstwhile colleagues might be a lot worse than she first thought. To see Grace, who's always been so calm, so very much in control, reach the point of actual physical violence… it's not just disturbing, it's downright frightening. And as for Boyd's visceral reaction… well, that's even more terrifying. For what it implies more than anything else. He wouldn't, though, would he? He wouldn't… hit Grace. Aloud, she says, "Grace, I need to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the absolute truth."

Guarded blue eyes regard her with a wariness that's so uncharacteristic it's almost painful to see. "What?"

There's no easy way to say it, so Eve doesn't bother to try. Watching the woman standing by the open back door, she says, "Boyd. The way you flinched when… Has he… Well, has he ever hit you?"

Grace blinks in evident surprise, as if it's the very last question she ever expected to be asked. " _Boyd_? Of _course_ not. Oh, Eve, please don't tell me you really think…?"

Fighting a rising flush of embarrassment, she counters, "Everyone knows he's got a temper, Grace, and we've both seen him do things that we've been forced to turn a blind eye to."

The response is immediate. "Such as?"

It's not difficult to frame a reply. "Intimidating suspects? Use of excessive force? You do remember the state Jason Heath was in when they brought him back to headquarters for questioning during the Nicholson thing?" It's been a little over a year, and Eve can still picture the man's extensive facial injuries. "Spence said he had to physically drag Boyd off him to stop him from beating him to a pulp."

"It's not his fault," Grace murmurs, looking away.

A cold chill runs down Eve's back. Her mouth feels desert dry as she says, "So he _has_ hit you?"

"No!" The vehemence with which the single word is delivered as Grace focuses on her again is unmistakable. "He would never do that. _Never_."

"I saw the way you flinched away from him," Eve presses, sick at the thought but determined to press on. "Christ, Grace, you virtually _cowered_."

"He's _never_ hit me." Stubborn insistence. "Never has, never would. You _know_ that."

"I thought I did, but…" Eve pauses, regains some equilibrium. "What did you mean, then? 'It's not his fault'?"

"It doesn't matter." Listless and dismissive.

"It matters to _me_ ," she insists. Something else occurs to her. "When I first arrived, you said you'd hurt yourself falling over in the garden."

Grace nods. "That's right. I did."

A ghostly scene plays out in her head. Fists and fury. "Are you sure? Grace?"

Seeming to gather herself together, Grace glares at her. "Of _course_ I'm sure. What on earth are you trying to imply, Eve? That he beats me?"

She swallows. Has to know the truth. "Does he?"

" _No_." There's a visible growing fury in Grace now. "How could you _possibly_ think that? You've known both of us for, what, five years? More? How could you think he'd _ever_ do something like that, or that I'd still be here if he did?"

"Grace – "

The interruption is quick and hard. "I knew some people would struggle to understand why we decided to move in together, but I'm disappointed in you, Eve. Truly disappointed. I thought you were more perceptive than most, not to mention far less judgemental."

It stings. Maybe she deserves it to. Giving up altogether on the pretence of tea-making, Eve takes a step forward. "I'm just concerned, Grace, that's all. It's obvious things aren't right between you, and when I saw what happened upstairs…"

"You jumped to conclusions. The _wrong_ conclusions." Grace shakes her head. "Boyd and I have far more in common than you'd ever believe. Not on the surface, maybe, but deep-down, where it matters. We come from very similar backgrounds. Not geographically, maybe, but that's of no consequence."

"I just…" Eve doesn't finish, doesn't know what to say.

"My father," Grace says, her voice low and steady, "was a penniless Irish labourer who came over from Dublin during the war. He married my mother because he had to, because she was pregnant with my brother. He wasn't a bad man, but he was a heavy drinker who wasn't at all suited to family life. Some of my earliest memories are of him laying into my mother on a Friday night when he got back from the pub."

Cheeks burning, Eve offers a sincere and contrite, "I'm sorry, Grace. I didn't know."

"Why would you?" The blue eyes stare deep into her, searching for something. "It wasn't just his wife who suffered, his children did, too. Now ask me why I flinched."

Shaking her head, she murmurs, "I don't need to, do I?"

"Growing up in fear is a terrible thing, Eve, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Neither would Boyd. Ask me about _his_ family. Go on, ask me."

"I…"

"He's a Bermondsey boy," Grace says, "just one generation away from the Old Kent Road. His father drove a black cab and his grandfather worked on the docks. He grew up like me, knowing that on a Friday night the best thing to do was hide under the bed and pray to God no-one came looking for him." A deliberate pause. "He would _never_ hit me. Do you understand, Eve? _Never_."

"I'm sorry," Eve says again, and she's rarely meant the words more.

But Grace hasn't finished. "You've never forgiven him for Stefan, have you, Eve? Not really."

"That's not fair, Grace," she objects, bad memories stirring. "He made a tough decision in the heat of the moment. I really don't know what I would have done in his position. Do _you_?"

"No," Grace admits. "No, I don't. I hope I would have tried to find a solution that both served justice _and_ spared Stefan's life, but I've never been in that sort of position. And neither have _you_."

It's true. And… isn't she almost as culpable as Boyd himself? If Spencer hadn't been there to drag Stefan out of the lake, Eve knows she would have continued to stand there, up to her waist in water, watching as he drowned. Trying to push the unpleasant thought away, she says, "I realise that. Look, we're not talking about _me_ , Grace, we're talking about _you_. About you and Boyd, and what the hell's going on between you."

"It's none of – "

" – my business," Eve says. She dares to reach out, to rest her hand on Grace's arm. "Yes, I realise that, too. But I really think you need to discuss it with someone, and soon, don't you?"

-oOo-

It's mugs of tea, not glasses of wine, that sit between them on the dining table this time. It takes longer than Eve expects to prise the truth out of Grace, but once she does, her response is a simple, "In this country, whistleblowing is protected by law."

Her former colleague nods. "I know."

"You _have_ to say something, Grace," she insists. "How are you going to feel if someone does get seriously hurt, or worse, even killed, at Whiteheath?"

Grace shakes her head, her deep weariness palpable. "I don't even want to think about it."

"So? What's stopping you from speaking out?"

The answer is not a great surprise. "Carl."

"Carl," Eve echoes. She waits, but there's no further explanation. Striving for patience, she says, "Come on, Grace, out with it. What's going on between you and Carl?"

"Nothing." A thin, exhausted denial.

"All right," she says, "let me rephrase the question. What hold has Carl got over you?"

Grace looks up, and this time there's a clear misery in her expression that tells Eve she's close to learning the truth. "I made a mistake, Eve. An incredibly stupid mistake."

Resisting the urge to swallow hard, she prompts, "Go on…"

It takes Grace several long, tense moments to admit, "I told him something I shouldn't have. That's the kind of elementary mistake I'd expect from a trainee psychologist, not someone with my experience."

Keeping her voice low and calm, Eve says, "I see."

"And he's made it quite clear that if I make any move to terminate our sessions, he won't find it necessary to think too carefully about who he chooses to discuss what he knows with."

"So?" Eve shakes her head, perplexed. "Come on, Grace, it can't be _that_ bad. What's the worst that could happen? You get a slap on the wrist and a terse reminder about professional standards and conduct?"

"That doesn't bother me in the slightest," Grace tells her. "I'm working because I _want_ to, not because I need to. I could retire tomorrow and simply offer my services to a charity or something to keep my hand in. Believe me, I've thought about it."

"But…?" Eve prompts.

"But, if Carl is… less than discreet about what he knows, word will spread and then…" A tiny, helpless shrug. "I can't risk it, Eve. I'm settled, I'm happy, and I don't want to lose the life I've got now."

"Why would you?" she asks, but there can be only one realistic reason. "Oh. You told him something about Boyd."

"I wasn't having a good day, and somehow Carl sensed it. I was so caught up in my own drama, I didn't realise I was being manipulated until it was far too late. I can't believe I was so bloody foolish. All the years I've been doing this job, and…" Grace shakes her head, stares down into the depths of her mug. "Staff morale at Whiteheath is at rock bottom, Eve. There's no money, the staff are all so overworked they're at breaking point, and dangerous short-cuts are being taken on a daily basis. Deep down I know I have to do something, but…"

"You're frightened about the… personal… ramifications." Silence falls between them, heavy and brooding. The steady ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly seems loud and intrusive. Trying to ignore an abrupt and fierce craving for nicotine, Eve says, "How many times have I heard you telling people that Boyd isn't an ogre, Grace? Surely he'd understand?"

Grace shakes her head. "You've seen how difficult thing are between us at the moment. Getting him to even listen to what I had to say without flying off the handle would be a major achievement."

"He's worried sick about you, Grace, that's why he's so touchy. You _know_ that. If you explained – "

"He wouldn't forgive me," is the stubborn response. "Betrayal is something he just can't stomach."

"We all speak out of turn from time-to-time," Eve tells her. "For heaven's sake, you live with the guy, if he doesn't know by now that you're not perfect…"

"I've never claimed to be."

"You know what I mean," Eve says, exasperated. Despite her equable temperament and general serenity, Grace can be every bit difficult as Boyd sometimes. Just as stubborn, too. She leans back in her chair. "Oh, I need a cigarette."

"I'll get you the ashtray."

"It's not raining," she points out.

"So?" Grace says, getting up. "I'm not as precious about it as he is. If it makes you feel better, imagine you're indulging in _my_ half of the house."

"That's one way of looking at it, I suppose," Eve comments, shaking a cigarette loose from the depleted packet stashed away in her small shoulder bag. She sparks her lighter into flame as Grace deposits the heavy glass ashtray in front of her and then returns to her chair. Inhaling smoke deep into her lungs, she says, "Look, unless you were impugning his manhood – "

"Oh, _please_."

" – whatever you told Swift about him couldn't possibly be _that_ bad."

"You don't need to know," Grace tells her.

"No," a familiar male voice says from the foot of the stairs, "but _I_ do."

-oOo-

The house is still standing when Eve returns from the off licence on Highgate High Street. Both the owners' cars are still parked outside, too. Deciding it's a good omen, she carries her bag of supplies up to the front door and unlocks it with her borrowed key. Stepping into the hall, she listens hard for a moment, but can't hear any shouting from the kitchen on the floor below. It's possible her hosts are silently sulking in separate rooms, of course. Or that Boyd has stalked off on foot. She hopes not. She hopes that just for once they have had the patience and presence of mind to both talk to _and_ listen to each other.

Grace is no saint, and Boyd is not an ogre. Both facts are true. The former has her faults, and the latter has his good points. Somewhere in the middle, there must be a place where they can at least try to understand each other.

Hanging up her coat, Eve picks up her shopping again and heads for the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs, she complains, "You didn't tell me it was a twenty-minute walk."

It's a deliberate warning, whether they need it or not.

She finds them where she left them, seated on opposite sides of the dining table, but Grace is cradling what appears to be a fresh cup of tea, and Boyd is flanked by a bottle of Scotch and a large crystal tumbler. There's a stillness and silence in the room that's difficult to interpret. Eying them both with some caution, she asks, "Shall I go straight back out again?"

"No," Grace says, her voice quiet. "It's okay."

"Is it?" She looks from one to the other. "Why do I feel like I'm trespassing?"

"You're not," her hostess assures her with a brief glance.

Not convinced, Eve looks towards her host. "Boyd?"

He raises his right hand a fraction, the gesture dismissive. "It's fine."

"Right." She's not sure the situation could feel any more awkward. "Maybe I should…"

Boyd stands up. "Sit down, Eve. It's about time we all had something to eat. I'll cook dinner."

It's one of the most surreal moments she's experienced for a long, long time. She echoes, "You'll cook dinner."

"He _can_ cook, you know," Grace says with some asperity.

There's an elephant in the room. A damn great African bull elephant that no-one's mentioning.

Not knowing what else to do, Eve places two bottles of wine and a still-sealed packet of cigarettes on the table and sits down. All she can offer is a dry, "Of course he can."

-oOo-

"I never realised he could be so diplomatic," she remarks, seconds after Boyd wishes her good night and withdraws from the living room leaving them with their first chance to talk properly since his unexpected return home. The sound of his heavy footsteps on the stairs fades away, to be replaced by the distant creaking of floorboards overhead.

Grace, sitting with her legs curled under her in the big armchair by the fireplace, says, "He has his moments."

Eve nods. "Evidently. Well? How was it? Did you tell him everything?"

The answer comes with a sigh. "I did."

Determined to hear the full story, she presses, "And…?"

Grace doesn't meet her eye. "Let's just say… I think there's a lot more talking to be done."

"Talking, or arguing?" she inquires.

"With Boyd, they're often one and the same thing."

"He's still here," Eve points out. It must mean something. Maybe everything.

"He is," Grace agrees.

"And so are you."

"Yes." There's a moment or two of reflective silence before Grace looks straight at her and says, "I'm going to report my concerns."

Relieved, Eve says, "About Whiteheath? Good. It's the right thing to do."

"I know. I shouldn't have let… personal matters… cloud my judgement."

"You would have done it in the end, regardless." It's meant as simple reassurance, but she believes it. There are few people amongst her friends and acquaintances who are as honest and principled as Grace Foley.

Grace is staring up at the ceiling. "Would I?"

"Yes," Eve confirms without hesitation. "You're a woman of impeccable integrity, Grace."

"Mm." The woman herself does not sound convinced.

"You _are_ ," she insists, "and that's one of the things Boyd likes about you. You've always been a reliable and fearless moral compass, someone he's consistently been able to depend on to tell him the truth and keep him on the straight-and-narrow."

"Until now."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Eve advises, not sure where the words are coming from. "We all suffer from occasional lapses of judgement. The important thing – " she breaks off as she notices Grace's tired, amused expression. "Teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, hm?"

"I might be getting on a bit, but I'm not _quite_ old enough to be your grandmother, Eve." The reproof is gentle.

"Not by a long way," she agrees with a tired smile. "My grandmother's in her nineties. Mind you, she still walks three miles a day, and shouts at kids messing around in the street."

"I'm sorry your visit hasn't come at a happier time," Grace says after a long pause. "Heaven knows what you must think, listening to us fighting all the time."

"It's just like old times, Grace. Reminds me of life down in the bunker." Eve considers the notion for a moment, then asks, "Do you miss it?"

"All the time," Grace admits, her voice sounding hollow. "He does, too. But life moves on, and we wouldn't have what we have now if things hadn't changed."

"No, the Powers That Be would never have allowed you to openly live and work together, would they?"

A firm shake of the head. "Absolutely not. Can you imagine Maureen Smith's face?"

Chuckling as she pictures the formidable, hard-headed woman in question, Eve says, "I can, actually."

Grace's expression is reflective. "She had her suspicions, you know. She was convinced _something_ was going on."

Eve snorts, takes the opportunity to say, "Grace, _everyone_ was convinced something was going on between you two. There might have been some raised eyebrows when you suddenly announced you were buying a house together, but no-one was surprised that you two were… um…"

Grace pounces on the word. "'Um'?"

"Together?" Eve suggests, suppressing a smirk. She wonders when it happened, when things changed forever between them. During Grace's cancer treatment, maybe, or later? In the aftermath of the Piers Kennedy case, perhaps, while she was recovering from –

"Ah. 'Making the beast with two backs', you mean." The unexpected glint of devilment in Grace's eyes as she breaks into Eve's train of thought is impossible to miss.

" _Grace_ ," she objects, feeling that some level of appropriate outrage is expected.

"Eve." Steady, amused.

She sighs, mostly for effect. "Well, I'm glad he makes you happy."

"He does. Most of the time."

What more, Eve muses, can anyone hope for? Perfection in an imperfect world? Ridiculous.

"I won't be offended if you tell me to mind my own business," she says after some thought, "but just what _did_ you tell Swift about Boyd that was so potentially incendiary?"

"Oh." Grace seems to consider before continuing, "Well, we were talking in general about personality changes – what can cause them, the serious impact such changes can have on people's lives."

She can't guess where the words might be leading. "And…?"

"When Boyd was a teenager," Grace tells her, evidently deciding to trust her, "it seems that he and a couple of other local lads were larking about on some scaffolding one evening, trying to impress a group of girls. It had been raining all day, and as he climbed higher he lost his footing and fell – straight down onto the road below. He broke his wrist and both ankles. Fractured his cheekbone, too. He was rushed to hospital – where apparently, he remained unconscious for three days. When he woke up… well, according to his sister, afterwards he simply wasn't the same easy-going, happy-go-lucky boy they knew."

"Traumatic Brain Injury?" Eve guesses, well aware of the possible consequences of such a fall. "Frontal lobe damage?"

Grace nods, her expression sombre. "That would be my best guess, yes. His sister told me that after the accident his behaviour changed completely, became much more impulsive and reckless."

It doesn't surprise her. "Makes sense. And that's what you told Swift?"

"Yes." A tired nod, followed by, "I may have inadvertently referred to him as my partner, Eve, but I definitely never mentioned his name, not once. Carl must have asked around though, because by our next session he knew who he was… and what he does for a living."

"So?" Eve inquires with a slight shrug. She doesn't understand Grace's level of concern. "I don't see the relevance. You're talking about an unfortunate accident that happened, what, more than forty years ago?"

"An accident," Grace informs her, "that Boyd never revealed on his original application to Hendon. An accident that isn't referenced anywhere in his personnel file."

Frowning, she asks, "You're quite sure about that?"

The confirmation is immediate. "Absolutely sure. A couple of years before you joined the CCU, I was asked to do a psychological assessment of him. I never told him as much, but to help me I was given temporary access to everything the Met had on record about him right from the day he joined. Medical history included."

"Well, were things as stringent back then? Background checks, and so forth?"

"I have no idea," Grace confesses, "but returning to our old friend Maureen, for instance…"

"If they found out _now_ ," Eve continues for her, "they could use it against him."

"Could and _would_. And Carl damn well knows it. He made it quite clear that if I stopped seeing him, he – and his solicitor – would have no qualms about telling anyone who would listen that heaven knows how many people have been sent down over the years thanks to a brain-damaged copper."

Eve winces. Can't help herself. "That's – "

"Oh, I know it's archaic and inaccurate terminology, Eve, but that's _exactly_ how the tabloids would describe it."

"And if Boyd tried to fight it…"

"…he wouldn't have a leg to stand on," Grace finishes. "Not with his record of… unorthodox… behaviour."

The quick, unpredictable temper, the emotional instability, the occasional frightening losses of control… Eve shakes her head. "Well, accident or not, he's a damn good detective, Grace. Everyone knows that – even Maureen."

"But he's still a major thorn in their side, even now." Grace says, uncurling her legs and standing up. "If something like this blew up, even if they did manage to hush it up and stop the press getting hold of it, there's no _way_ he'd be given command of SC10."

"I see," says Eve, and she does. "So that's why you were so determined not to rock the boat with Swift."

Starting to pace in a very Boyd-like manner, Grace says, "I thought… Well, to be frank, I thought if I kept him sweet until Granger retires, Boyd would get his chance."

"And now?" Eve asks, fearing the answer.

"Now… I really don't know, Eve."

"What does Boyd say?"

A humourless smile. "To quote Wellington, 'publish and be damned'. He had absolutely no idea I knew about any of it."

"When did you find out?" Eve inquires. She doesn't know if it matters or not. Decides that it does. If Grace always knew that perhaps Boyd wasn't as fit for command as –

"Oh, back in the summer," Grace tells her, which goes some way to allaying her concerns. "Pam – his sister – and I were introduced at a family thing. We hit it off rather well and had lunch together a few times afterwards, just the two of us. She's a few years older than Peter is, and she remembers the whole thing very well. She said he was never quite the same after the accident."

"Injury to the frontal lobe can do that. Mind you," Eve says, not sure that she's saying the right thing, "it does explain a lot."

"Doesn't it?" Grace replies, tone dry. "Who knows whether or not he'd still have got into the Force if he'd told them about it? But he didn't breathe a single word about it, so…"

"You're doing the right thing," Eve says, echoing her earlier sentiment. "Swift's not the only dangerous criminal detained in Whiteheath, and if things there are really that bad…"

Grace halts by the fireplace, folds her arms. "If I speak out, it could cost Boyd SC10."

A twinge of anxiety makes her demand, "You're not changing your mind?"

"No." A heavy sigh. "No, I'm not. It needs to be done. But…"

"You feel guilty."

Grace nods. "I do. He hates what he's doing at the moment, Eve, absolutely loathes it, and the thought that I might be responsible for denying him his very last chance to get back to doing what he loves…"

"I'll tell you what he loves," Eve says, deciding to be blunt. "He loves _you_ , Grace. Anything else good in Boyd's life… is just the icing on the cake."

"That's… very sweet, but is it true?"

"Oh, I think so." Confidence growing, she continues, "He might have been a little slow on the uptake, but to an outsider… Grace, looking back, I watched him gradually fall in love with you, bit-by-bit, day-by-day. I suppose one day even _he_ finally realised what was happening. And when he did, all bets were off. That was that."

" _Fait accompli_?"

She nods. "For him, I really think it was."

Grace offers her a slight smile. "Perhaps you should have studied psychiatry, not pathology."

"Not my bag," Eve says with a deliberate grimace. "Far too messy. I like absolutes. You know exactly where you are with DNA, and you don't have to talk to cadavers."

Silence filters into the shadowy room as Grace sits down again. Contemplative, gentle silence that feels easy, unchallenging. Eventually, she says, "He's a difficult man, Eve. A stubborn, quick-tempered, _infuriating_ man. One day he's gentle, charming, and an absolute joy to be with… the next he's bad-tempered, moody, and completely intolerable."

To a lesser degree, Eve thinks, that's how he used to be at work. Up one day, down the next. A creature of extremes. Only ever predictable in his complete unpredictability. Knowing she's right, she says, "And that fascinates you, doesn't it?"

"It does," Grace admits. She pulls a face. "God only knows what that says about me."

"As a woman?"

A quizzical look. "What else?"

Eve shrugs. "A psychologist?"

"Hm." A thoughtful pause. "He's intelligent, articulate – "

Striving for a suitably innocent expression, Eve inquires, "Good in bed?"

The derisive look she gets in response couldn't be more pointed. "What do _you_ think?"

" _I_ think," she says, deciding that scathing look is answer enough, "that you spend far too much time trying to justify to the world why you're with him. No-one's judging you, Grace. It's your life, no-one else's. Stop trying to convince everyone that you haven't completely lost your marbles, and just get on with enjoying life together. Christ knows, you both deserve a bit of happiness."

Another weary flicker of a smile appears in response. "Spoken like a true friend. Thank you."

"I also think you should probably go upstairs and join him now," Eve says, preparing to stand up. There doesn't seem to be much left to discuss. Fumbling through her pockets, she adds, "I'm going to go outside and have a last cigarette before bed. Goodnight, Grace."

-oOo-

It's well past nine the next morning before she stirs. She stays where she is for a while, warm and comfortable in the simple wooden-framed single bed, dozing intermittently and enjoying the relaxing peace and quiet. There's not much noise filtering in from outside, and none at all from the rest of the house. Either her hosts are late risers at the weekend, or they are already two floors beneath her in the kitchen. Whatever the reason, everything seems tranquil. Stretching in a languorous, half-hearted way, Eve thinks about the long drive back to Manchester, about all the things she needs to get done before returning to work on Monday. Ahead of both, however, there is the looming spectre of the promised farewell lunch. If she's lucky, Boyd and Grace are still on speaking terms from the night before, and it will be a pleasant, friendly way to round off her brief stay in London. If she's not lucky… No. She won't think about that unless or until it seems she must.

She considers going in search of coffee, breakfast, and nicotine – not necessarily in that order – but reluctantly decides that having a quick shower and getting dressed first will save her some valuable time. Getting out of bed and gathering the things she needs, Eve pads across the room, opens the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. She's greeted by the sound of low, muffled voices emanating from the room diagonally opposite. They're awake, then, and not downstairs in the kitchen. More importantly, they don't seem to be arguing. The sound of quiet female laughter confirms that lunch may not be the uncomfortable, awkward ordeal part of her has been fearing. Good.

Crossing to the bathroom, she locks the door behind her and immediately becomes aware of suspiciously rhythmic creaking noises from the other side of the tiled wall. It sounds a lot like a muted version of the sort of noises her old double bed in her student flat in Paddington regularly used to make whenever her then-boyfriend Gareth stayed the night. It's not conclusive proof of what's going on in the next room, of course, but Eve is a dedicated scientist and a firm believer in Occam's Razor. Another feminine laugh convinces her beyond any reasonable doubt. With due diligence, she makes sure she cannot fail to be heard, adding a loud, authentic-sounding cough to the deliberate medley of sounds she creates as she readies herself for the shower. Whose blushes she hopes to spare, she's not quite sure, but the creaking stops. If it resumes once she's under the fierce spray of water, well, she won't hear it.

She hopes they'll resolve things. Hopes they'll stay together, come what may. Thinks they probably will. They're stubborn, both of them, and not given to letting themselves be dictated to by anything or anyone. Boyd can be capricious, just as he can be obnoxious, but Eve doesn't doubt the strength of his feelings for Grace; doesn't doubt his tenacious devotion, or his iron-willed determination to get what he wants. As for Grace… Grace is every bit as tough as he is in her own way, and just as obstinate once she's made her mind up about something. There's no doubt she'll have her say – publicly if necessary – on the serious problems at Whiteheath, whether it means she has to move on to somewhere else or not.

Perhaps _that's_ why they suit each other so well. Because despite the obvious differences, there are many important similarities, too.

Maybe, Eve reflects, her thoughts becoming more philosophical as she steps into the shower cubicle, it's a yin and yang thing. Contrary yet complementary forces more-or-less in perfect balance.

-oOo-

Hale calls just as lunch ends. When he calls for a second time and then a third, Eve gives in, excuses herself, and moves away from the table to answer him. A badly decomposed torso of indeterminate age and gender found inside an abandoned factory. When will she be back? Will she and her team lend their services?

He doesn't have Boyd's mendacious, exploitative charm, his deceptively ruthless ability to get his own way, but she's starting to think there's rather more to DI Craig Hale than she first thought. An interesting touch of gruff –

 _No_. Grace is the one with a notable and long-standing weakness for police officers, not her.

They look good together, Eve concedes, ending the call and looking across at them. Boyd and Grace. Him, tall, silver-haired, and handsome in a very distinguished manner, and her, petite, striking and effortlessly stylish in her own unique way. They're deep in conversation now, eyes locked, oblivious to everything and everyone around them. It's the way it should be.

Summoning the waiter with a discreet gesture, she pays the bill. Searches through her pockets for a tip. Her car keys are already in her hand as she casts her preoccupied former colleagues a last, fond glance. Her car is outside, parked behind Boyd's. It was always her intention to start the long drive home from the restaurant.

She's not fond of goodbyes, even those that aren't protracted and emotionally-charged. Nodding to the bemused-looking waiter, she slips out of the door and stands for a moment on the pavement outside, saying a still and silent farewell to the capital. There will be long-distance complaints and castigations from Grace later when she realises what's happened, but that's okay, Eve can live with that. She'll see them both again soon enough, she's sure.

Lighting a cigarette, she walks towards her car without a backward glance.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
